


My Best Friend, the Drug Dealer

by WhatupGhouls



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Bullying, Guns, Homophobia, Homophobic F-slur, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, Knives, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, References to Animal Abuse, References to Drugs, Slurs, Swearing, Teenage Dorks, Violence, b - Freeform, teenage boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatupGhouls/pseuds/WhatupGhouls
Summary: “I’m erm...I’m looking for Ronnie…” replied Dennis. “The Rat?” he added as if it needed clarifying.“Not my name…” sighed the Rat “and whatcha want me for anyhow?”Dennis had not expected the animosity. He was a customer for God’s sake.----------Or, 15-year-old Dennis tries to buy some weed from his high school dealer, Ronnie the Rat but ends up forming an unconventional friendship.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly & Mac McDonald, Mac McDonald & Charlie Kelly and Dennis Reynolds, Mac McDonald & Dennis Reynolds
Kudos: 30





	My Best Friend, the Drug Dealer

Dennis Reynolds is stressed; he’s got that white, upper-middle-class 15 year-old-kid stress.

School. Parents. Social status. Acne - the usual. He’s like a living afterschool special on pubescent pressure.

As much as he tries to tell himself that he’s perfectly fine, balanced, normal there’s a persistent buzz in his brain. A cloying macabreness that worms its way into his mind, coaxing up mean, sinister thoughts.

“Reynolds!” came a cry from behind him as he walked down the hall towards his next class. Adriano Calvanese drapes a heavy arm around his shoulder, a gesture that could be genuine affection, macho intimidation, or some hormonally-charged combination of the two. “What’s up, bitch?”

“H-hey, Adriano” replied Dennis, his skin crawling as he battles the urge to flinch away from the sensation.

“What you up to this weekend, man?”

“Well-”

Before he can answer, Adriano is holding forth, already having waited too long to talk about himself. “Me? I’m planning on drinking bourbon, banging Becki Baker whilst her parents are in the Poconos and getting higgghhhh!”

“Nice,” intoned Dennis, not meaning it.

“You ever partake, Reynolds?”

“No, I’ve never really gotten much of a chance to talk to Becki...”

Adriano tuts and tightens his grip around Dennis’ neck. “Weed, dumbwad. I meant weed,” he says, giving Dennis a shake in admonishment.

“Oh! Oh, yeah...now and then,” lied Dennis. “Y’know, I’m actually trying to cut down…”

“More for the rest of us,” laughed Adriano, clapping him on the back and making as if to walk ahead to find some other more popular, less awkward people to impress.

Dennis had heard the rumors of course, about the magical curing properties of weed. He’d seen his fair share of dime bags and dollar bills be exchanged in the locker rooms and lunch halls.

Maybe it was worth a try? To not feel like his brain was aflame each and every day.

“Hey, erm - my dealer left town and...moved to...Detroit to join a cult...”

As lies go, it was abysmal. And the delivery was even worse.

Adriano raised an eyebrow and Dennis continued, hoping to God this new foundation concealed the color rising in his cheeks. “So where do you get y-your weed from? Who’s your guy?”

“The Rat,” Dennis must have looked blank. “Ronnie. Ronnie the Rat?” Adriano was growing impatient, he took a few steps further along the corridor, signaling that his patience for this conversation is all but depleted. “The faggot who hangs out with Dirtgrub, that kid that’s always eating garbage and shit for loose change?”

Dennis now has a vague recollection of those two; characters whose idiosyncrasies had left a greater impact on his recollection than their actual existence.

“Oh, okay. Cool.” There was a small pause as he thought about what had just heard, “wait? That guy’s gay?”

Adriano chuckled. “Dude’s about as straight as your sister’s spine, man. Total Gaylord but he’s got half-decent weed.” Overhead, the bell rang and streams of people pushed past the pair, “he’s always hanging out in the alley by the Target over by Broad Street after school.” He turned around and walked off, but not before firing a pair of overly cocky finger guns at Dennis. “Hey, mention me - he’ll give you a special discount. You’re welcome, man.”

* * *

As Dennis turned off the street and into the alley by the side of Target, he started to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Away from the reassuring noise and sunlight of a busy, bustling street, the alleyway was cold and intimidating with dank smells hanging in the air - the perfect setting for an illicit drug deal.

His high school was a melting pot of income levels and backgrounds. Kids whose parents had sailing club memberships copied homework off the kids who needed food stamps to have an evening meal at home. Dennis, of course, was firmly in the former category, with his father’s job ensuring a seemingly endless supply of international holidays, deluxe cable packages, and correctional medical wear for Dee’s janky spine. His elementary school pals and ‘friends of the family’ acquaintances didn’t come from the kind of home life where someone’s chosen career path was a high-school drug dealer.

Truthfully though, Dennis often felt intimidated and out of place by his classmates from the less affluent end of the socio-economic spectrum. The poor kids were the tough kids and they didn’t appreciate the same things the rich white kids of his parent’s rich white friends did. Not that Dennis felt he fit in perfectly with those kids either, but still.

He slowed his walk as he pushed deeper and deeper into the alleyway, suddenly aware of the pounding in his ears. He could see two figures in the shadows, hanging around near the dumpsters, their unique shapes and details growing clearer and clearer as he neared.

A lanky dark haired teen was sat in a questionably stained office chair, legs propped up on an upturned trash can. A few feet away, a short, slight scruffy guy was shooting at a row of cans with a BB-gun.

The Rat and Dirtgrub.

Dennis nearly turned tail right then but lost the opportunity when the short guy, with his hair stuck up in all directions, clocked sight of him.

“Pfsst” said the Dirtgrub, blowing ineffectually through pursed lips. “Spfssstsss.”

“Dude, what the fuck you are doing?” asked the dark-haired one.

“Pffttssss.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m whistling!” came the indignant cry. “I’m whistling, man - look!” the short guy gestured at Dennis with the gun and the dark-haired one was on his feet in a second, face set in what was (intended to be) a hard, intimidating look.

“The fuck you want?” he demanded from Dennis, squaring up. With just a brief glance up and down this guy’s spindly frame, Dennis was certain he had at least 15 pounds on this kid who was all pointy elbows, thin limbs, and scuffed knees. Something about the wild, erratic look gave him pause for thought though - crazy was dangerous, crazy was unpredictable.

“I’m erm...I’m looking for Ronnie…” replied Dennis. “The Rat?” he added as if it needed clarifying.

“Not my name…” sighed the Rat “and whatcha want me for anyhow?”

Dennis had not expected the animosity. He was a customer for God’s sake.

“Well, someone sent me to-”

With impressive speed, the Rat was suddenly right in Dennis’ face, that feral expression all the more intense for the perceived threat.

“You a cop? Tell me if you’re a cop.”

“Yeah, pig!” yelled the short guy.

“I’m not-” began Dennis.

“Cos if you’re a cop and you’ve come to get me, I swear to God I’ll cut you-” Dennis felt metal press against his neck...something didn’t feel quite right though.

“You’ll cut me with...a butter knife?”

The Rat actually smiled and lifted the ‘blade’ away from Dennis’ jugular. “Yeah” came the reply, as if he was just glad to be asked. “A rookie mistake is using a sharp knife - that shit is easy to stitch back up. I cut you with a blunt blade, it hurts real bad and it’s a bitch to sew back up - creates a deep, wide wound. It’s science, man.” The very blunt butter knife was waved at the side of the Rat’s head to indicate how smart this was.

“I’m not a cop,” said Dennis, taking advantage of the fact that he no longer had cutlery pressed to his flesh.

“Oh shit,” said the Rat “you’re not?”

“No.”

“Then why you here?”

“I wanted weed?”

The Rat grinned. It was an insanely big, sincere grin that Dennis couldn’t decide if it made him feel more or less reassured.

“Why didn’t you say?” said the Rat, depositing his knife in the pocket of his combat pants with a theatrical flourish. “Step into my office, dude.”

He walked over to the abandoned office chair and grabbed a grubby backpack from the ground. He pulled out a notebook and several clear bags of greeny-brown leaves which he piled up on the upturned trash can.

“Cool, okay...” said Dennis, trying not to look like a complete novice. “W-what would you recommend?”

The Rat and the Dirtgrub shared a look, clearly amused at what Dennis had said.

“Weed,” said the Rat, in a tone that suggested that much ought to have been obvious.

“Yeah, but like…” said Dennis, feeling his ears singe “is there a specific blend or...something?”

“Dude. Look, this isn’t an artsy coffee shop. I sell weed, man. Take it or leave it…” there was a further look that passed between the short guy and the Rat, more fun being had at Dennis’ expense; he needed to get out of here before he made an even bigger dick of himself.

“Fine. Whatever just sell me some weed.”

“How badly do you want to get fucked up?” asked the Rat, spreading the bags of weed over the top of the trash can, displaying his wares.

This could be a trick question - another opportunity for Dennis to inadvertently embarrass himself. He faltered as he contemplated what would be the coolest, most self-assured way to respond. Thankfully, the Rat jumped in to elaborate.

“Like, I can give you something that’ll get you ‘white suburban mom at a fifth grade piano recital’ relaxed, something to get you buzzed enough to watch Wizard of Oz listening to Dark Side of the Moon or shit that’s strong enough to make you forget your name and wake up with no pants on a golf course in Michigan with half-eaten White Castle...”

The Rat looked up at Dennis expectantly.

“Errr…the...middle one?” said Dennis, genuinely unsure if he’d chosen correctly. “I...don’t want to end up in Michigan.”

“Sure thing,” said the Rat, grabbing a bag of weed and emptying some into a smaller bag.

“Cool, thanks,” said Dennis, suddenly painfully aware of his hands and the fact that he didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m De-”

“No names,” said the Rat, holding up an index finger to silence his newest customer. “My business depends on anonymity.”

Dennis had no idea there were so many rules for drug dealing. He glanced about the alley as his order was being prepared. The Dirtgrub had gone back to shooting at tin cans, missing each and every single one.

“Goddamnit” swore he swore, dragging fingers through his ruffled mess of hair in agitation.

“Charlie, you need a fucking eye-test, man.” said the Rat as he finished up divvying out the weed.

“It’s not me, dude” came Charlie’s retort “my eyesight is fine!”

“The sight’s crooked,” explained Dennis, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Both the Rat and Dirtgrub turned to look at him, intrigued at his awkward, fancy-clothed poser suddenly speaking like an expert on BB-guns.

“I er...I have that model of gun. I shoot at squirrels in my yard and the sight’s always crooked so needs a bit of tweak…”

The Rat and Dirtgrub shared a look; no amusement there this time - just interest.

“We have a squirrel problem in our yard…” Dennis adds, unnecessarily.

The Rat nods and Charlie hands the gun to Dennis, who strips the gun down. He looks at the Rat, eyebrows raised. With a moment’s hesitation, the Rat hands over his butter knife and watches as Dennis carefully prods at the sight of the BB gun.

“There,” said Dennis, passing the gun back to Charlie who takes a shot, knocking the can off the dumpster top with a satisfying clang.

“Holy shit” he muttered, impressed at the repair and his shot.

“Your yard got a real squirrel problem?” asked the Rat to Dennis, with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

“Yeah...” replied Dennis, awkwardly.

“Okay, here you go,” the Rat held the bag towards Dennis who made the grave error of going to take it. The bag was wrenched away, lightning fast. “Ah-ah! Money first, then weed.”

That was fair, or at least Dennis thought.

“$10,” said the Rat.

Shit.

Was that good? Was he being ripped off? Dennis genuinely had no idea.

“Oh, okay,” he said, acutely aware of the fact he’d not responded within an acceptable period of time. “Thought it would be more than that...”

“I can charge you more?”

“No, no,” said Dennis, quickly “$10 is cool - we’re cool,” he grabbed his wallet from his jeans and was about to hand over a note when he paused. “Y’know, Adriano Calvanese was the one who recommended you...he said you could give me a special discount?”

“Adriano Calvanese?” repeated Ronnie with a nod of his head and a small laugh.

“Yeah.”

“$20.”

“What?!?”

The Rat shrugged, unaffected by the objection, “Adriano Calvanese is a massive dick, dude. If you’re cool with him, I’m gonna need to charge you massive dick rates.”

“I’m not-” began Dennis, “we’re not - I don’t hang out with Adriano Calvanese...he just...he just pointed me your way to get high, that’s all?”

With narrowed eyes, the Rat considered that his gaze boring into Dennis as he searched those words for any untruth. “Fine. $10 but tell anyone about this and I’ll cut you…”

Dennis handed over a note and was passed a bag of weed, which he quickly stashed away in his backpack.

“Cool...thanks, I guess?”

The Rat nodded at the completed transaction.

“See you at school,” said Dennis, not being able to think of anything else to say.

He walked away but stopped when he felt a sharp sting on his shoulder blade. “Ow! What the fuck?!?” he demanded, turning back, palm firmly pressed against the fabric of his jacket.

The Rat grinned, the recently fired BB gun in his hands. “I’m having a special today,” he said, tossing the gun back to the short guy (Charlie, as Dennis had learned). “Buy a bag of weed and get one for free...if you smoke it at the point of purchase.”

“Are you...bribing me with free weed to hang out with you?”

“What? No, it’s a promotion,” explained the Rat, “plus-” he added with a smirk “-I’m willing to bet you didn’t think to buy any rolling paper or matches or whatever…”

“That,” said Dennis, visibly deflating at the realization “would be accurate…”

* * *

20 minutes later, Dennis was high and hanging out with Charlie and the Rat.

“This is amazing,” he said, feeling like each word was getting too big and unwieldy for his mouth to handle. “I feel great. Like, I don’t feel stressed at all. It’s incredible. I’m like, a million percent chill, man. Why can’t I feel like this all the time?”

The Rat surveys Dennis and his new-found calmness out of the corner of his eye, unsure whether to be amused or concerned. What did this kid, with his expensive clothes carefully pressed and this season's brand-name sneakers, have to feel stressed about?

“Like, it’s like finally, finally, all the weird, noisy thoughts in my head have shut the fuck up,” he sighed, looking almost serene in the afternoon sunshine.

“You really that pent-up, dude?” asked the Rat, addressing Dennis but watching Charlie, who had an unfortunate tendency to go tottering off on his own adventure when high. Of the three of them, the Rat was the only one who hadn’t smoked the ‘Buy-One-Get-One-Free’ bag of weed. Even Dennis knew the rule of ‘don’t get high off your own supply’.

“I’m meant to be prepping for college applications...” explains Dennis, with a slight twist of his mouth. “Plus, my parents are arguing a lot right now…”

“College applications?” repeated the Rat, incredulous. His future plans did not include college applications, but even he knew Dennis is way ahead of the game on this one. Everyone in school knows the really brainy kids, the ones destined for Ivy League placements and academic accolades. The Rat is certain Dennis isn’t one of those weird, serious kids skipping grades and astounding parents, teachers, and the school board alike with their advanced intellect.

Dennis nods in response to the Rat’s words. “My mom wants me to go somewhere like Stanford, maybe Havard if I can get in. My dad just wants me and my sister off to college…”

“Harvard?” repeats the Rat with a scoff, “fucking asshole factory.”

“That’s my point!” replies Dennis, enlivened to find someone to badmouth the Massachusetts-based institute of higher learning with. “I don’t want to go somewhere with a bunch of stuck-up rich kids.”

Dennis knew that the second the words left his mouth, he’d made a mistake. He was pretty sure both of his new acquaintances viewed him as exactly that: a stuck-up rich kid trying to rebel against strict parents or get a few experiences of the other side of the economic scales for anecdotes at cocktail parties later in life. He coughS and looks anywhere other than the Rat’s expression of mild disdain at Dennis’ lack of self-awareness.

“Take it you’re not going to Harvard, then?” says Dennis after a few seconds of awkward silence, trying to make a joke out of it.

“Nah, man. College is a waste of time…” says the Rat, before adding with almost painful but unabashed honesty “‘Sides. Not like I could afford it, even if I got in anywhere. I’m going into the family business.” There’s a note of pride in his words.

“Weed?”

“Well, drugs. But yeah,” admits the Rat. “My dad’s been in and out of prison a lot so he has tonnes of contacts. Weeds like, training wheels for drug dealers. Practically sells itself. When I’m outta high school, I’ll start on expanding my business.”

As naive as he was, Dennis wasn’t sure how lucrative and stable a career as a professional, full-time drug dealer could be. He’d seen Scarface; he wasn’t convinced many Philadelphia-based drug dealers were enjoying similar levels of success.

“People are always going to need weed,” explains the Rat “there is never going to come a time when people don’t need drug dealers, man…”

“What if they legalize it?” says Dennis, earning himself a stern look from the Rat before he grabs Charlie by the collar of his t-shirt to stop him dreamily wandering into the path of oncoming traffic.

“Who the fuck would legalize weed?” demands the Rat, obviously torn between being scornful at the prospect or disquieted over for his potential business dealings.

“I totally would” replied Charlie, automatically.

“No-one asked you, Charlie” snaps the Rat, his voice harsh and tight from Dennis’ criticisms. Charlie takes the retort in good spirits though, meandering ahead of the Rat and Dennis, content with his own company for at least half a block or two.

His mind wrapped in a warm fug of cannabis and adolescent carefreeness, Charlie pays scant attention to where he’s going. He collides, full-bodied into Adriano Calvanese as the bigger teen leaves a burger-joint.

“Dirtgrub!” cries Adriano with a snort, watching Charlie ricocheted off his chest and nearly topple over, the balance of his small frame addled by drugs.

Charlie mumbles something between an apology and a greeting as he tries to back away from the looming figure of easily one of the biggest guys in the year.

“Whoa, whoa - not so fast Lil’ Dirtgrub. I’ve got a challenge for you,” he scoops up a large handful of wet leaves, cigarette butts, and discarded candy wrappers from the gutter with barely a flicker of disgust. He holds the pile of garbage out to Charlie with an expectant grin. “Eat it,” he says, the cold tone at odds with his large, almost winsome smile. “Eat it and I’ll give you a dollar.”

Charlie shakes his head, painfully aware of the size difference between him and Adriano. He glances over his shoulder, searching desperately for backup.

“Two dollars then,” says Adriano, a frown tugging down his eyebrows.

“Oh fuck,” said the Rat as he clocked sight Charlie being cornered by one of the biggest, most unlikeable dickbags in the school. “This asshole. Hey!” yelled the Rat, hurrying towards Charlie with zero hesitation, squaring up to the big guy just like he had with Dennis barely an hour earlier. “Leave him alone, Calvanese.”

“Ronnie!” yells Adriano, dragging his attention away from Charlie, who seizes the opportunity to scuttle away and hide behind the Rat.

“C’mon, dude,” says the Rat, “I’ve told you before, leave Charlie alone.”

“Well gee, Ratboy. I didn’t realize I was meant to be taking orders from you.” Adriano takes a step closer, looming over the Rat with obvious menace. “Besides, Ronnie, Dirtgrub was just in the middle of doing something for me, weren’t ya, Dirtgrub?” he brandishes the fistful of garbage at Charlie, who tugs on the back of the Rat’s t-shirt, indicating he would very like to get out here, as quickly as possible.

“Quit getting Charlie to eat weird shit for money, Calvanese. What d’you think this is, fucking kindergarten?”

Adriano doesn’t answer. He’s spotted Dennis, who loitered a few feet away from the scene, torn between protecting his already uncertain social standing and coming to the aid of his newfound companions.

“See you took my advice, Reynolds,” said Adriano with a smirk “but er, you know you don’t need to hang out with the guy that deals you weed, right? Especially when he’s such a fucking loser.”

“Back off, Calvanese,” says the Rat, staring down the bigger guy with confidence that Dennis is sure far outstripped the scrawny teens fighting ability. Dennis hopes for the Rat’s own sake and safety, the butter knife doesn’t make a reappearance. “You stay away from Charlie and we’ll stay away from you…”

Even though it’s three against one, everyone knows Calvanese would win any tussle. He’s bigger, stronger, and not stoned. Nevertheless, his gaze slides over the three teenage boys, so much lower in the High School pecking order than him, calculating his odds. He ultimately decides regardless of how likely a successful beatdown of these three losers would be, to leave it.

“Whatever,” says Adriano, sounding genuinely unperturbed by the unfolding events. He drops the handful of leaves and junk on the sidewalk and smirks at the Rat, who turns around, one arm slung protectively over Charlie’s narrow shoulders.

“You faggots ain't worth my time anyhow…”

Dennis watches as the Rat stops dead in his tracks; for a second, there’s a flash of dark rage in his eyes, like storm clouds over a tumultuous ocean. Amazingly, he chuckles and turns back to Adriano, a smile tugging at his lips.

“What, er…what did you just call me?”

“I called you a faggot, dude? You deaf or just stupid?” snorts Adriano.

The Rat nods, as if this was the confirmation he’d been waiting for. Without warning, he launches himself at Adriano, viper-fast. “Fucking asshole!” hisses the Rat as he tackles the large guy down to the sidewalk. Adriano might be big, but the Rat has speed and the element of surprise on his side. The pair scuffle on the sidewalk, the Rat managing to get a few lucky punches in as Adriano struggles to comprehend what is happening.

Once he has his bearings though, the tables abruptly turn. The Rat is thrown onto his back, Adriano’s power knocking the wind from his lungs. Adriano grabs the fabric of the Rat’s thin t-shirt and hauls him forward, one hand raised in a fist as he takes a brief moment of pause to savor what is going to happen next.

The Rat closes his eyes, bracing himself for the dull thud of a clenched fist hitting him square in the face. There are three muffled clicks, in quick succession. He feels the grip on his t-shirt loosen and Adriano slumps next to him, his mouth open in a silent groan.

Confused, the Rat scrabbles away, unsure of how he’s managed to best Adriano without even trying. If Adriano has noticed his victims escape, he’s unbothered by it, too preoccupied in cradling his crotch with a small, self-pitying whimper.

Dennis lowers the BB-gun, his bloodshot eyes widening as he appreciates the full enormity of what he’s just done. Charlie stands beside him, wearing a matching expression of horror.

“Run!” Dennis yells at the Rat and Charlie, and the trio dart away, eager to put as much distance between themselves and Adriano Calvanese whilst he’s incapacitated with his injured dick.

Dennis considers himself a good runner but trying to flee while high on weed presents a new set of challenges. He feels like his legs are simultaneously made of rubber and concrete. His gait feels awkward and ungainly; for a brief second, he wonders if this is how Dee feels every day, tottering around in her surgical steel back brace. Despite the panic hammering around his chest, he gives a snort of laughter.

He follows the Rat and Charlie as they wind their way through several blocks, making false turns and doubling back on themselves. Dennis wonders if this is the first time they’ve had to high-tail it away from someone. Having spent barely an afternoon with them, Dennis is left with the distinct impression that the two frequently find themselves in trouble, often of their own doing.

The Rat slides into an alleyway satisfied that they’ve put enough time and space between them and a no-doubt enraged but wounded Adriano. Charlie collapses against the brick wall of the alleyway, panting like a freshly raced greyhound. Dennis joins them, equally robbed of breath but feeling oddly elated and alive.

For a few minutes, the three catch their breath, wiping hair off their sweaty foreheads. It's the Rat who breaks the silence first, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Their senses of humor already simplified by the weed, Dennis and Charlie join in giggling almost immediately, laughing for too long and too loud given the Rat almost had his face smashed in mere moments before.

“Dude” breathed the Rat, letting his head drop against the brick wall as he grins at Dennis. “Those poor fucking squirrels - they never stood a chance!”

“You shot him right in the dick” wheezes Charlie, eyes closed as he relishes the memory of Adriano crumpling in on himself as he drops to the floor, nursing his stinging dick.

As the adrenaline and the weed begin to wear away, Dennis is left feeling a little brittle but manages a small laugh all the same.

“C’mon,” says the Rat, holding out a hand to Charlie who between fits of giggles has slumped to the floor. “Let’s go get some food.”

Dennis hesitates, unsure if he’s being included in this invitation. He watches as the Rat looks directly at Dennis and gives a sharp flick of his head, a clear message that he’s referring to all three of them. Dennis tries to suppress a smile as he follows the Rat and Charlie, the conversations stupid but enjoyable as they walk to a local taco place.

The afternoon slides by, bleeding into the early evening. The trio ate as they walked, debating trivial topics with an enamored intensity like they’d been doing it for years already. Dennis insinuated that maybe Charlie and the Rat had. Given the way the Rat had so readily and protectively come to Charlie’s defense, Dennis assumes they’ve known each other for years.

It’s only as the streetlights start to come on does Dennis realize what time it is.

“Listen, er.” he says to the Rat and Charlie “this has been fun but I ought to head home. Thanks again for the weed,”

“No worries, man,” says the Rat with an amiable shrug. “And er….I’m Mac, by the way.”

“Dennis.”

“And I’m Charlie,” says Charlie, no less affected by the weed for all the Mexican food consumed.

“Yeah, we fucking know, Charlie,” says the Rat with a short roll of his eyes, but it’s friendly. Just dicking around between friends.

“Well...I guess...I’ll...see you around?” Dennis says, obviously uncertain. He hopes he doesn’t sound too hopeful, too needy.

“Yeah. See you, Dennis,” says Mac, as he and Charlie head towards their neighborhood with a brief wave goodbye.

“We gonna hang out with that guy again?” asks Charlie, when the pair had walked in a contented silence a couple of blocks.

Mac scoffs. “What, the weirdo who shoots squirrels? Yeah, right. No fucking way, dude...”


End file.
